I’m going to start this by apologizing because Gabriel has called me out on the fact that I keep messing up the names of places where we are. I know its pathetic, but here are my excuses. 1) I’m so tired and loopy by the time we get somewhere I really don’t care what the town is called or where it is on a map 2) alot of the names of places here are derived from the regional language and not traditional Spanish which I’m used to so I can’t remember them. I can’t remember most words after we’ve ridden all day actually. But more on that later. Anyway, apologies for calling Muxia Muria or whatever I called it. Right now we are in A Pobra do Caramiñal and I know that’s right cos I fu&*^ng googled it. 
Today we left at 9:08am and arrived here at a perfectly reasonable 3:26pm. There was one hour around 12pm when we pulled over for directions and maybe a snack which turned into lunch, but other than that we were riding. And it was kinda flat. Except for the one mountain.That was after lunch. But I was prepared for it because last night Gabriel, pouring over his maps, peered at me over his reading glasses and said ominously: “Tomorrow there will be mountains.” Um… for serious? I thought we went over this yesterday. This year’s ride was supposed to be FLAT. He had also warned me yesterday as we got up and loaded the bikes: “I’m going to be a man of few words today.” Ok Babe, no problem. 
We woke up at 7 ish, (this time Gabriel was the one hitting the snooze button). He had crashed out easily and early the night before, but I had been up and down until around 2am, having to pee every half hour because of all the water I drank last night in my attempt to re-hydrate. So on his part it was a case of getting too much sleep, and he couldn’t wake up. We had a croissant and cafe con leche for breakfast, provided by the hotel proprietor who was also the cook, bartender, and everything else. He couldn’t have been nicer. People in this region speak Spanish with a beautiful musical accent, it sounds like Italian. Of course they also speak the Galician regional language which we don’t understand a word of, and has alot of “x”s in it, like the Basque. Another thing I learned, as I’m riding through this very green coastal region, is that many Irish settled here. Galicia. Gaelic. Explains why we rode past a group of people playing bagpipes as they walked down the street. 
The Totem Animal for today was a Jack Russell Terrier we passed that was barking and digging excitedly into the earth. We only passed him, so unfortunately I’ll never know what treasure he was digging for. After a couple of hours and into a forest-y area, Gabriel advised me I should eat a packet of energy goo. I really don’t like those things 1) because they are so freaking sweet and sticky and 2) because I don’t really like food that isn’t food. But Gabriel is a believer in “one every hour” like it says on the packet and technically he’s right I’m sure. But I usually skip some hours. “You never eat them and then you get all tired.” Gabriel said, all disapproving. Thought bubble: Um, maybe I get “all tired” because we are riding uphill for 6 freaking hours. But I left that one alone. We did stop around 12 at a hotel restaurant and split a plate of chicken, salad and french fries. There was a cooking show on TV with a famous Basque chef and we, the bartender, and the one other guy in the place were totally glued. The Chef was spouting words of utter wisdom like: “You must eat slowly.” And “Children who are not taught to eat well will have social problems later.” Dude, you’re so right.
The coast was misty as we continued on and littered with dozens of tiny fishing boats, each with one solo man standing and casting his line. I kept thinking of The Old Man and The Sea, which I admit is the only Hemingway book I’ve read, but its a great freaking book. Back to not remembering words. As I’m riding I see farmers carrying things like scythes. And its one of those words that you never use, so I think (in my loopy state) is that the right word? A scythe. A mollusk. What are these words? And then I count to 10 in French and then recite some of a Shakespeare monologue and just generally trip out on language in general. You have to pass the time somehow. Until I notice how much my ass / knees / shoulders hurt and I go: Don’t think about it. Look at the pretty flowers. Don’t think about the highly unwanted crotch rub you’re experiencing right now. 
We got up our mountain, and back down. And finally arrived in A Pobra Do Caramiñal around 3. Lots of shipyards here, but still beautiful. We had to ask directions to our hotel from one crusty shipyard worker, and as Gabriel was talking to him I did just fall off my bike. Just randomly from a standing position. Its something that just happens sometimes, the mechanics and balance go haywire. Like life. I was fine. The guy saw me of course, cos these things never happen when no one’s looking. But we found our hotel and had hours to lay around until dinner. 

Arrival time: 3:26pm. 75 km.